Natural Choices
by Marianne Greenleaf
Summary: After the dust settles, Harold Hill ponders what it means to be himself.


_Sir Robert Chiltern: You prefer to be natural?  
Mrs. Cheveley: Sometimes. But it is such a very difficult pose to keep up.  
~An Ideal Husband, Oscar Wilde_

XXX

_August 1912_

Sometimes Harold Hill didn't know who he was, exactly. He had developed and discarded so many personas over the course of his lifetime that it was hard to say. Despite everything he'd managed to achieve in River City, he couldn't help wondering: did successfully leading a band one time _really_ make him Harold Hill? Or was it an identity that he had to continually earn through sustained success as a music man? Was part of him Gregory Granger (as Marcellus Washburn would no doubt continue to call him) now that he was once again an honest salesman of sorts? And no matter how many aliases he adopted, would he always be, deep down in the core of his soul, Daniel Joseph Kaczmarek: the boy who ran far and fast from the stultifying chains of his father's dreary old family namesake passed down through the generations? And if he _was_ Harold Hill after all, would he still be that man if the next parade was a flop?

These weren't questions Harold had ever bothered asking himself when he was perpetually on the move. Back then, he was out to taste every single dish that the banquet of life had to offer, and that kind of inconvenient navel-gazing would have been a serious liability to his agenda. But now that he had, against all odds, found an honest place for himself in the world and the dust had settled after the excitement of successfully conducting a band, winning over a town and a librarian, and vanquishing a jealous self-appointed rival to Marian for his affections, the newly minted music professor had the time to do nothing _but_ think. And now that he had a proper working conscience, it was a bit mortifying to contemplate that at his age (which didn't put him among the hoary-headed but certainly didn't mark him as a spring chicken either), he was undergoing a crisis of identity.

For the first few weeks after his reformation, it was easy to ignore such bothersome reflections, as Harold's mind was full enough attempting to get his business established in earnest and complete the rigorous curriculum that Marian had set for him in musical theory. Wanting nothing more than to make his new life work, the former conman studied harder than he ever had as a schoolboy. Yet he couldn't shake the increasing misgiving that Harold Hill was yet another role he was escaping into in order to avoid facing the stark and dismal reality of what he truly was. Because it was almost _too_ easy, being Harold Hill. He got to spend long, pleasant days with the woman he loved and the boys who admired him as a father figure. And as Oscar Wilde had cleverly observed, one never seemed so much at one's ease as when one had to play a part.

It wasn't long before these kinds of thoughts became so intrusive that they started to interfere with Harold's daily endeavors. One afternoon at the emporium, when the librarian was drilling him on every single one of the major and minor keys, he kept losing the thread of the conversation, absentmindedly fiddling with the library book in his hands as he tried to keep his focus honed on the present. He thought he was doing a passable job of appearing fully engaged until Marian paused in her recitation, looked at him with those brilliant but uncomfortably piercing eyes of hers, and asked:

"Is something the matter, Harold? You've already missed three more answers today than you did last week, and we aren't even halfway through the lesson yet!"

"My apologies," he said ruefully. "I suppose I've had a lot on my mind, lately."

Marian blinked. "It might help to talk about it," she suggested in a level voice that belied the concern and consternation that suddenly bloomed in her expression.

Realizing how ominous his statement sounded, Harold immediately moved to reassure her it had nothing to do with regret. "I'm not itching to hop on a train out of town, if that's what you're thinking. I honestly couldn't be happier being here in River City, with you and the boys."

Thankfully, the apprehension ebbed from her beautiful face. "Then what is it?" she asked in a gentle and friendly tone.

After a split second of consideration – Harold was always weighing the potential outcomes of his actions, even after his reformation – he decided there was nothing for it but to tell her the plain truth. "There's a part of me that still feels like a fraud. It's bad enough that you all continue to call me professor, even if it is an academic courtesy. Because if you haven't guessed already, Miss Marian, Harold Hill isn't exactly the name I was given at birth."

The librarian's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I _did_ have that hunch – especially after Mr. Washburn kept calling you Greg."

Harold gave her a crooked smile. "Well, since we're on the subject… Greg isn't my real name either."

Marian did look surprised at that, but not as surprised as he would have expected. Still, he waited for her to ask the inevitable question, not quite sure whether he was truly ready to divulge that piece of information but prepared to do so if needed – the price he was willing to pay to remain by her side remained very high.

But the librarian was far too canny for that. Instead, she asked, "But why do you feel like a fraud? Even if Harold Hill isn't your given name, the _Minuet in G_ you conducted with the boys' band was real. You _made_ Harold Hill real that night."

He sighed and looked down at the book that was now lying uselessly in his lap. "And what happens to Harold Hill if I can't make him real again in August?"

Marian was silent for a few moments. Even though Harold's gaze was still aimed carefully downward, he could almost _hear_ the wheels turning in her clever mind. And when she finally spoke, she didn't disappoint. With the tone of lovely and steely determination that always made him feel like he could lead a million parades, she said: "Unfortunately, there's no guarantee that this venture will be a success a second time. But I can promise you that whatever happens at the next parade, I'll still be standing by your side afterward. Because you will _always_ be Harold Hill to me, no matter what."

Harold snapped his head up to look at the librarian again. If they weren't in the emporium, he would have pulled her into his arms and kissed her. But since he had set the rule for himself of no canoodling in this place and he was determined to conduct this courtship honorably, he did the next best thing: "Oh, my dear little librarian, a man could travel the world ten times over and never find a woman as wise and wonderful as you."

Marian's cheeks turned the most charming shade of rose pink, and now it was her turn to stare bashfully down at her lap. "Well, you're not the only one who's ever wondered if you're a fraud, Professor Hill. When I came to River City from Cincinnati, I wasn't sure who I was for a time, either. I went from being popular and having many friends to being an outcast with nearly no one to talk to at all, and it thoroughly disconcerted me. I started to think that perhaps the vivacious and charming girl I was back in Cincinnati was nothing but a vain and hollow sham, and the unlikeable spinster they deemed me to be was my true nature. It wasn't until I heard the way they denigrated Uncle Maddy as a miser – when he was the most generous and kind-hearted man I had ever known! – that made me realize the sum of a man is not what other people say about him. It's how he behaves and what's in his heart that truly makes him who he is. And if they were so wrong about Uncle Maddy, they could certainly be wrong about me, too."

Harold had been about to vigorously protest her allowing a bunch of small-town simpletons to get her so down on herself, but her pronouncement of what makes a man's true character knocked the spirit out of him. Still, he managed to let out a devil-may-care chuckle. "If that's the case, I suppose I'm in real trouble once I find myself standing before St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. As you know, my behavior has been far from exemplary."

Marian regarded him with eyes that were a potent mixture of kind, sympathetic, and understanding. "It's true that any decisions you may have made in the past helped shape you into the flimflam man you became. But you aren't your yesterday, Harold. And you aren't your tomorrow – not yet. You are who you choose to be today."

As Harold gazed at the librarian, considering her words, he felt the same intense sensation of walking on a metaphorical tightrope: the electric thrill of pulling off a con and not quite knowing whether he would succeed. Only this time, he wasn't trying to steal what he so desperately wanted, but to earn it honestly.

His fingers nervously toyed with the page they were grasping. "And… do you like who I'm choosing to be?"

She smiled sweetly at him and placed a steadying hand over his. "Very much, Harold Hill."

Harold's fingers stilled, his shoulders relaxed, and he let out the large breath he hadn't realized he was holding in. Giving her fingers an affectionate squeeze to keep himself from succumbing to the almost intolerable temptation to kiss the daylights out of her, he said, "Thank you for that, Marian. I think I'm ready to continue with the lesson now."


End file.
